


Silence

by Magnolia822



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coda, Established Relationship, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Season/Series 05, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's silence is tearing them apart and pushing Arthur into another's arms. Coda to Episode 5x5, "The Disir."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Melooza for looking this over for me. xoxox

  
The air in the great hall is warm and redolent with the scent of meat and spices. Camelot hasn’t had such a feast, with nobles as far away as the borderlands in attendance, for a very long time. Everyone seems in high spirits, helped by the free-flowing mead and wine. On one side of the table Gwaine, Percy, Elyan, and Leon are all deep into their cups. They gesture for Merlin to join them, but he abstains, although Arthur had instructed him to enjoy himself for once, chastising him again for his morose demeanour. _You used to laugh at my jokes, Merlin. What would make you happy?_ It is true that in recent weeks Merlin has found it increasingly difficult to be around Arthur; there is a distance between them which he can’t begin to bridge, knowing what he knows.  
  
Sometimes he wonders whether he has lost the ability to laugh all together.  
  
The King and Queen sit at the centre of the table. Gwen glows resplendent in her velvet gown, smiling patiently as she listens to whatever it is the red-faced Sir Baldwin is telling her. When she notices Merlin, she gives him a nod and a subtle eye roll. Arthur is deeply engrossed in conversation with Mordred, who occupies the privileged spot at the King’s right hand. The festivities are for him, a revel in honour of his return from death’s door and for taking the curse meant for Arthur, thus sparing his life. The fact that Merlin has saved Arthur countless times and never been thanked thusly does not fail to grate, though Merlin would never want this kind of display. He does not want a knighthood or a gift of lands.  
  
Servants dressed in finery pour drink into goblets, bring out tray after tray of roast pheasant, rare venison, doves in thick plum sauce. No one else knows they might as well be celebrating the destruction and doom of the whole kingdom. No one save Gaius knows it is Merlin’s fault, and his fault alone.  
  
He has not slept since their return from the Disir one week before, when he had first realised his grievous error as a miraculously cured Mordred skipped down the steps to greet them. Or, more precisely, to greet Arthur, who had been thrilled that his young protégé and newest friend had survived despite all odds. Merlin had watched the reunion with bitter disbelief.  
  
 _There can be no place for magic in Camelot._ How those words had burned his throat like fire, the very worst kind of lie. His whole body had rebelled against it, but the sacrifice had, in those moments, seemed necessary. Inescapable. The only thing worse was remembering the sight of Arthur crumpling on the bloody battlefield, impaled by Mordred’s sword. Yet by advising Arthur to maintain the status quo and not recognize the old religion as the Disir had commanded, he had inadvertently spared Mordred’s life and ensured the prophecy would come to pass.  
  
Or had he? Never before has Merlin been so infected with self-doubt; Gaius had warned him that perhaps he was misjudging Mordred . . . it was conceivable, wasn’t it, that the vision the Druid seer had shown him in the cave was nothing more than a _possible_ future. Was destiny really so written in stone?  
  
Even now in this room full of friends, despair settles on Merlin’s shoulders like a shroud. He retreats to a far corner to stand amongst the other servants, unable to tear his eyes away as Arthur’s face lights up with joy when he leans close to offer Mordred the tenderest cuts of meat, almost as if he would feed Mordred from his own hand. Something blurs with the shame and rage and despair in Merlin’s chest, something even worse than envy. In that moment he desires Mordred’s death for a completely selfish, completely unjust reason.  
  
He must busy his hands, busy his eyes. He longs to escape from this place, but can’t quite bring himself to leave. The overarching need to protect Arthur rises above his own misery; it has been his job for so long he doesn’t even know how to think beyond it.  
  
“All right, Merlin?” Gwaine asks, sidling up to him as he pours the last of the wine in his pitcher.  
  
“Fine.” He is overly terse, he knows, but he can’t help it. Only this task of serving is keeping his wits in check.  
  
“You look like you could use a break.” Gwaine’s voice is warm, his eyes soft with inebriation and something else. Merlin forces a smile. He knows his friend cares for him. For years he has wished he could return the sentiment in the way Gwaine truly deserves.  
  
“I will. In a little while.”  
  
It is enough to make Gwaine retreat after first giving his shoulder a squeeze. There is, as always, regret in the gesture.  
  
Merlin notices Arthur’s absence just as the feast reaches its boisterous crescendo. Gwen remains at the table amongst the guests, her face rosy with drink, and the knights rib each other in loud, laughing voices. Next to Arthur’s empty chair, Mordred’s seat is also vacant.  
  
With a twisting fear deep in his gut, Merlin sets down his pitcher and makes his way to the corridor that leads to the higher stories of the castle, his magic quickening in his veins. It is probably nothing. Arthur often gets a sore head from too much mead; it is not unusual for him to leave a feast early to rest.  
  
He reaches the landing that leads to a divided corridor separating the King’s chambers from the Queen’s, a path he has travelled many nights before to perform those services only a man can give another man—that only he can give Arthur. Yet weeks have passed since the last time he found himself wrapped in sheets and the King’s strong limbs.  
  
Merlin pauses at door to Arthur’s rooms, listening for danger. He does not wish to disturb Arthur if he is at rest, especially with things strained between them. Earlier in the day Arthur had asked if Merlin would join him in his chambers that night and he’d declined, knowing that if he did let himself fall into Arthur’s arms he’d betray himself in an instant. The refusal had been keenly felt—and instantly regretted.  
  
Merlin knocks softly. No sound emerges from the other side and so, still uneasy, he retreats without satisfying his worry. Instead of returning to the feast or to his own chambers, he descends the rear stairs that lead to the Knights’ quarters. The second-story corridor flickers with torchlight, and his shadow draws long on the wall, a vacant and silent companion.  
  
Something metallic crashes and draws his attention to the opposite end of the hall. The sound echoes for a moment, yet Merlin wastes no time before turning on his heel. He winds down a narrow passage that leads to the castle’s bowels, surprised when he hears voices. The way is darkened here, and so it is easy to escape notice by flattening himself against the stone. Only only once he has inched the remaining distance does he peek around the corner, heart beating in his chest like a cold, dying thing.  
  
And then it stops.  
  
Moonlight filters in from a high, arched window, illuminating the scene below. There inside the cold storage room, among old linens and dusty broken furniture, the King is fucking Mordred.  
  
The boy’s hands are braced on the wall above his head with Arthur close behind, kissing at his neck. Their trousers pool around their ankles, but Arthur’s cloak conceals most of their nakedness. Even so it is impossible to misinterpret their actions. Arthur’s hips move in fast, urgent rhythm, and the room is filled with muffled grunts and gasps. His blond hair shines in the soft light.  
  
Why they’ve left the door open, Merlin doesn’t know. His heart has resumed beating, but he is light-headed, scarcely able to catch a breath. He stares, unable to move or blink and so sees everything: how Arthur reaches around and makes Mordred moan, a sound that he muffles with the palm of his other hand. Arthur’s thrusts become longer, slower, pinning Mordred to the wall with force, and the boy’s head lolls back against his shoulder in helpless pleasure. Merlin can almost feel the deep slide of Arthur’s sex into his body, the meaty thickness of it. He knows the secret grunts and the small, intimate sounds of satisfaction. In spite of his sickness and disbelief, Merlin grows hard in his trousers. He can’t see Mordred’s face, but he can see the boy’s dark curly hair. It is like seeing himself and Arthur in a looking-glass. They have watched themselves sometimes, like this.  
  
The coupling is urgent, and it must not last longer than a few minutes, but for Merlin those minutes drag out like an eternity. He is numb, only vaguely aware of his own dull arousal. Arthur fucks Mordred like he owns him, lifting his slighter body to hold him close during those last few moments as he releases his seed. Merlin can almost feel the warmth and flood of it. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he notices his tunic is damp at the neck.  
  
Neither of the two men speaks, but Arthur collapses against Mordred as their breathing evens. Merlin knows the exact weight and solidity of Arthur’s body. His hands curl into fists.  
  
This is what he’s done, has allowed to happen. He’s pushed Arthur away and doomed them both. He can’t even feel jealousy; it has been replaced by something much more hopeless. Perhaps he gasps. Or maybe it is a broken moan. He must make a sound, because Arthur freezes and turns towards the door.  
  
“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur says. His voice cracks on the second syllable, and then he’s pushing Mordred away, groping for his trousers.  
  
But before Arthur can catch him, Merlin turns and flees.  
  
  



End file.
